


never wanted to be your weekend lover

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, also angst, and some fuckboi texts, comeback era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: Scott sees a text on Tessa's phone, accidentally.





	never wanted to be your weekend lover

**Author's Note:**

> Comeback era: fluff with a side of angst, or vice-versa.
> 
> Many thanks to platonicsvm on Twitter for letting me steal her prompt. The gratuitous Scott POV is in honour of fairwinds09, who has a thing for "suffering Scott" (terminology entirely hers).
> 
> Title is "Purple Rain" by Prince.

They flop back onto the pillows with a huff, sweaty and sated and spent, but most of all, deliriously happy. It’s April, they’re in Montreal, Marie and Patch are kicking their asses, and life is wonderful.

The comeback has been everything he could have hoped for so far, even though they’re scarcely a few months in, but already, Scott feels like they're headed for the gold. It’s amazing what a new city, new coaches and a new outlook can do. He’s more excited about this sport than he has been in what feels like a lifetime.

Of course, life has been made even more wonderful by this particular development, he thinks, as he pulls her close and presses a lingering kiss to the top of her head. Her hair is mussed, face flushed and she’s radiant, looking up at him with those deep green eyes he could stare at forever.

It’s been a bit more than a week since it happened, since they landed in a bed together again, since clothes were shed and words were whispered and quiet sighs turned into sounds of pleasure. It’s been just over a week but it feels like they’ve been doing this for years, and Scott thinks it’s kind of funny that everything changed but really, nothing did at all.

They’re still them, still Tessa and Scott; they still joke and banter like idiots and would never allow the other to fall. They’re still them, but he gets to bask with her in the afterglow, gets to have her tuck herself into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, gets to litter kisses over every inch of her exposed skin.

He gets to see every facet, every curve and dip and swell of her—and it is glorious.

They lie there, under her white fluffy duvet, cocooned in a bubble made for two. It’s quiet and peaceful for a few minutes, as they’re both trying to regulate their breathing and can do little but pant and smile. Eventually, Tessa begins to slip out from under his arm, pressing a lingering kiss to his chest. She’s heading toward the bathroom, and really, he should go too, but right now he’s a bit too boneless to move.

She clearly has more stamina than he does (and boy, if their training sessions in the gym haven’t proven that already, this sure will) because she saunters through the room with grace and a purpose, turning her head around as she reaches the en-suite. She meets his gaze, sees him still splayed out on the bed, smirks and has the audacity to fucking wink.

He huffs and lets out a breath, sinking deeper into the mattress still. He’s almost dozing off to the calming sound of water running in the washroom when a phone pings on her nightstand.

He groans, but blindly sticks his hand out to reach for it, cracking one eye open to make sure he’s picking up the one with the illuminated screen. He’s pretty sure it’s his phone, because Tessa’s is always on silent, so he holds it up to his face and squints so the light doesn’t blind him.

When he sees the screen, he freezes, stock-still. It’s not his phone.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position, looks at the offending object, at the flowery wallpaper and the single notification on the lock screen. He reads it three times just to be sure.

It’s a text.

From Ryan. Fucking Ryan.

_hey baby. what are you doing? i’m in your neck of the woods, was wondering if you have any...hotel recs for me? ;)_

He stares at the phone screen for what feels like hours—it’s really barely a minute—and struggles to breathe. This doesn’t make sense. This isn’t supposed to be happening.

He isn’t still supposed to be in the picture. Scott takes a deep shaky breath and runs his palm over his face.

Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence and three times... well three times is a habit.

At least, that’s how it’s always told.

But maybe he’s wrong, maybe she really did just want to blow off steam, like in the year where they flayed each other open in countless closets and hotel rooms, without a care in the world—her black dress and mussed eyeliner near-casualties during every encounter.

But that, that was Carmen seducing Don Jose (and vice versa), not Tessa and not Scott. This time, it was supposed to be real, them finally being truthful and admitting to everything that’s been building up between them. This time, they’re supposed to be stopping the lies that they’ve kept up over the years, some born out of necessity and some from the fear of putting things out in the open.

This time was going to be different. This time was going to be honest. This time was going to be forever.

Or so he thought.

He doesn’t notice the phone slipping out of his hand and dropping on the duvet where it lands face-up with a thud, doesn’t notice much of anything as he sags into himself and braces his hands on the mattress, lest he completely deflate.

This cannot be happening.

But it is, it evidently is, and the water in the bathroom is still running and Scott feels like he can’t breathe.

If this were a year ago, he’d be storming over, opening up the door and shoving the phone in her face. He’d probably head straight for the liquor cabinet too.

If this were three years ago, he’d ignore this was happening, just like he’d ignore the fact that Cassandra existed when he pulled Tessa into closet after closet, at rink after rink.

If this were seven years ago, he’d probably leave her apartment, quiet as a mouse, and not tell her anything. He wouldn’t bring it up the next day at the rink, and that might become the thing that breaks them.

But it’s not one, not three, not seven years ago. It’s 2016—and Scott is determined to do better.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plants his feet firmly on the ground. Taking another deep breath, he surveys the room where their clothing has been strewn haphazardly. _Okay,_ he thinks, _if this is all she can give me, it’s going to have to be enough._

The biggest thing Scott realized during the two years that followed Sochi, is this: he does not want to live a life without Tessa Virtue in it, doesn’t think he could.

So, if all Tessa can give him at the moment is a casual fuck, no strings attached, well, then that’s better than nothing at all. And he can do this, no problem, he tells himself. He can be there for her in whatever ways she needs him to be.

But the one thing he cannot do is stay here tonight, if this is how it’ll be between them now. He doesn’t trust himself enough for that, doesn’t trust himself not to bury his face in the crook of her neck as they fall asleep together and accidentally whisper _I love you so much that it hurts sometimes_ into the shell of her ear.

He pushes himself upward and starts looking for his clothes—his sweater, jeans, underwear, socks—quickly donning them before he loses all resolve and just pretends he never saw that damned text in the first place, slides back into bed and tries to lose himself in her once again.

Scott hears the door to the bathroom click and he turns around and damn, if his heart doesn’t stop in his chest for a second.

Tessa is standing there, wrapped in a white towel, her hair still damp and cascading over her shoulders in loose curls. Her cheeks are flushed from the hot water and there are droplets covering her freckled skin, turning into rivulets that gather in the dips of her her pale collarbones.

He makes eye contact and watches as she looks him up and down, taking in his rumpled hair and lopsided sweater and the fact that he only tied one of his shoes.

“Scott?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t actually know what he is doing, not at all. He has no good answer to Tessa’s question, so instead of opening his mouth he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

_How are you supposed to tell your skating partner of eighteen years and the love of your life that you can’t stay over because she doesn’t love you in the same way you love her and you’re trying your hardest not to break both your hearts?_

Yeah.

“I was gonna go,” he says instead, dumbly. “Early practice tomorrow, and all that.”

He starts backing out of the room awkwardly, trying not to trip over his shoelaces and fall on his butt. He supposes that if he were to wipe out, it’d be a nice metaphor for how he’s feeling at the moment.

Tessa is still staring at him when he reaches the door.

“Scott…” her voice trails off and he can’t bear to look at her, because there’s confusion and hurt on her face and she’s wrapped her arms around her chest like she always does when she feels insecure.

“I’ll see you in the morning, T,” he says, because he has to get out of here as quickly as possible lest his resolve crumble entirely. “Good night.”

He leaves her bedroom and doesn’t turn to look back, heads down the hall at a considerable pace and grabs his coat from the hook by the door. He can’t bear to look back at the bedroom, and feels like a monumental asshole for what he’s currently doing. Because, really, he _is_ a monumental asshole.

Even though he keeps telling himself that this is for the best, and he’s sparing them both, and they’ll feel better about it in the morning, he can’t help but feel his chest constrict as he pushes down the handle on her front door.

He takes a deep breath and steps out into the hallway, turning on his heel to get to the elevator. He’s about to press the button to head down when he hears a voice from the other end of the hall.

“Scott!” He turns around and sees Tessa, still in her towel but now wearing a pair of old Ugg boots. Her hair is still falling all around her shoulders and she’s gripping the towel tightly with one hand. In the other one, she’s holding something. “Your phone!”

Oh. He must’ve left it on her nightstand when he bolted, too preoccupied with her phone, his pants and trying to keep his heart in one piece.

Now, he stares at her dumbly from the other end of the hallway, until he decides that it might not be the worst idea in the world to move.

His feet feel leaden as he makes the short trek down the hall, and as he gets closer he notices her skin has dried from when she stepped out of the shower. There’s a new wetness on her cheeks though, and Scott realizes she’s been crying. His chest constricts and he feels bile in the back of his throat, because _he did that, he made her cry_.

Monumental asshole indeed.

She holds out the offending object and he takes it from her gingerly. Their hands brush for the briefest of seconds and he has to avert his gaze. It’s too painful.

“Thought you might need this,” she says, voice scarcely above a whisper. It cracks on the last syllable and he feels his heart break in two.

“Thanks.”

He’s turning away and about go back down the hallway to the elevator when she speaks again.

“I hadn’t heard from him in months, you know.”

_What?_

Scott stops dead in his tracks and spins around. “What?” he repeats, eyes wide.

“I said ‘I haven’t heard from the guy in months,’ Scott.” She’s got her free hand on her hip and she’s glaring at him and it’s both confusing and hot as hell and Scott is so overwhelmed that he needs to steady himself for a second. He screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, Tessa is still looking at him with a mix of sadness and anger and exasperation and he wants to scream.

“I saw a phone on the bed right when you left and I thought it must be yours. But it was mine and I looked at the lock screen.”

“Oh.”

“Is that why you left all of a sudden?”

Scott gulps. The silence is heavy between them, because what else is there to say? It’s the truth, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready to admit it. His eyes flick from her to his phone to the ground and back again, and it’s with a start that he realizes they’re still standing in the hall.

And Tessa’s in nothing but a towel.

“I’m sorry, T,” he says, because that seems like a good place to start. And then “we should maybe continue this…”

“Inside? Yeah.”

She opens the door and he follows her through, shucking his shoes and coat again.

It feels so strange to stand in Tessa’s living room again, the tension between them so thick you could cut it with a knife. He tries to think back to the last time it was this awkward between them, and his mind has to travel back to the months after Sochi.

He swore to himself, once he got out of the hole he’d dug, that he wouldn’t ever let them get to this point again. And now, standing across from Tessa, her towel slipping dangerously low on her torso, he thinks it’s so typical, that he made promises he’d inevitably break.

“I’m sorry, T,” he starts, “I … I just didn’t know, and it’s okay, because I’ll be there for you no matter what, you know. But I don’t think I can stay if it’s gonna be like this, I don’t think I can…”

“Scott. I haven’t talked to Ryan in months,” she says again, and yeah, this may be a sentiment worth repeating. “I don’t _want_ to talk to Ryan.”

“Oh.”

Apparently that’s all he’s capable of saying at this juncture, and sure, it’s not the most articulate thing in the world, but in his defence, he feels a bit like the wind has been knocked clean out of his lungs.

Tessa hasn’t talked to Ryan in _months_. Tessa doesn’t _want_ to talk to Ryan. Tessa doesn’t want to talk to other men… but Tessa is talking to him, and he’s a man. That can only mean one thing. Right?

“You don’t want to talk to Ryan? Or you don’t want to talk to other guys?”

“Scott,” she says. Her voice cracks a bit in the middle there, and he can see the tears welling up in her eyes. “The only guy I want to talk to is you.”

If that doesn’t do him in, he doesn’t know what would, and sure enough, he can feel his knees buckling and he has to steady himself with one hand on the back of her sofa.

Tessa takes the few steps toward him and cups his cheek with one hand. “Just us, remember? That’s what we promised.”

“I know.” He remembers it as clear as day, standing on the Great Wall, holding her hand, looking into her eyes and seeing them sparkle like he hadn’t in a long, long time. He remembers her nodding, and them hugging, and him spinning her around like an absolute fool.

Between tears and laughter and absolute joy, the thing that will stick with him until the day he dies is the feeling of the crushing hug she pulled him into and the way she hummed “just us,” right into the shell of his ear.

“I meant it.”

At that, she cups his other cheek with her other hand and pulls him back up into a standing position. He can’t help but be in total awe of her, of the freckles on her cheeks, the way her baby hairs curl at the top of her head. She’s smiling now, eyes still watery, and he can’t help but exhale a sigh of relief.

When she slots her lips to his, it’s like everything falls into place. She kisses him fiercely, all teeth and tongue, fists her hands in his hair and he wraps his arms around the small of her back. Kissing Tessa is always the best feeling in the world, but right now, kissing Tessa just feels like coming home.

They pull apart for air, breathing hard, and he rests his forehead on hers. “T—”

“I love you, Scott, you know that, right? I didn’t just sleep with you to blow off some steam.”

He’s known it on a subconscious level, yes, he has to admit, but he’s never dared hope she’d voice it aloud. Sochi and Kaitlyn and Jess and Cassandra and two months of radio silence were always there at the back of his mind, along with the well-worn idea that Tessa had bigger and brighter things ahead of her that went beyond a boy from Ilderton who was somehow good at skating but not much else.

Over the years, she’d worked hard to make him see the depth of her commitment to him. It never fails to take his breath away. But this? This, this might be the thing that does him in.

“God, T, I love you so fucking much.”

He pulls her in for another kiss, just because he can. Pretty soon, he’s got her pressed up against a wall and it’s glorious—to have her here with him, and everything’s out in the open.

He runs his finger along her chest, and she smirks and moves her finger to where she tucked in the corner of her towel. He watches in awe as it drops to the ground and lands in a puddle on the floor.

“Still thinking of leaving tonight?”

He barks at that, and yeah, he so deserved it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to hoist her up on his shoulder like a rag doll and carry her to the bedroom, where he deposits her softly on the covers.

“No,” he murmurs, as he kisses his way up her sternum. "Not for anything in the world."

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to yell at me in the comments or on Tumblr @good-things-come-in-threes or Twitter @_bucketofrice.


End file.
